


Lay Your Weary Head To Rest

by teamfreewolf



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-09
Updated: 2012-06-09
Packaged: 2017-11-07 08:46:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/429121
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teamfreewolf/pseuds/teamfreewolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Only the past few months of fearing for his life have instilled Stiles with enough self-control to not let out a loud yelp when he walks in his room and finds a huge slumbering werewolf in his bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lay Your Weary Head To Rest

Only the past few months of fearing for his life have instilled Stiles with enough self-control to not let out a loud yelp when he walks in his room and finds a huge slumbering werewolf in his bed. Derek’s body is wrapped in his blue sheets, one arm flung beneath a pillow and his dark head. Stiles stands stock still for a moment, then slowly moves across the room, putting down his backpack, while staying as far back from the bed as possible. 

Derek is apparently out cold, because he doesn’t so much as stir. 

Stiles gently lowers himself into his desk chair. His leg starts bouncing nervously. He leans forward and rests his elbows on his knees to stop the motion, stapling his fingers together and pressing his mouth to them as he watches the sleeping werewolf.

So. Derek Hale. Alpha. Taking a nap. In Stiles’ bed.  _O-_ kay.

What should he do? Should he leave? Should he wake him up?  _No._   

His brain isn’t firing properly. 

“Stop staring at me.” The grumble comes from the figure on the bed. Derek doesn’t move or open his eyes. “Either get out or get in.”

And  _that’s_  a joke, it’s got to be. Except that Derek doesn’t joke. Well, maybe a little. Ever since he became Alpha he’s been less touchy, less likely to snap at Stiles’ quips. Maybe he’s learning the fine art of sarcasm. 

Derek growls lowly. Stiles is apparently still staring.

Right, so, sarcasm. Derek obviously expects him to tuck tail and scatter, letting him continue to sleep. In Stiles’ bed. Where, hey, maybe Stiles wanted to take a nap. Who gave Derek permission to just  _take over_  his room while he was gone? 

He’s moving before he can think about, pulling off his shoes and hoodie, and then he’s lifting the sheets and sliding under. Derek’s eyes fly open, and Stiles can’t hold back the huff of laughter. This is so obviously the opposite of what Derek was expecting, and it’s hysterical. ‘ _Think you can just come in here whenever you want? This is Stilinski turf. What now, sour wolf?_ ’ he thinks. The humor is keeping the terror at bay. 

But Derek doesn’t say anything. He just looks at Stiles across the pillows, long enough for the humor to seep out of him. 

“What are you doing here, man? Get tired of your ratty old mattress?” He’s almost whispering, but he doesn’t know why.

Derek lids don’t close, but they lower, breaking eye contact. 

“The whole house, it just - it  _smells_  like her. And him. And blood.” Stiles can’t even process this. Derek’s actually answering him, talking to him like a human being, not a battered old chew toy. There’s no malice or threat in the voice. Just fatigue. “I can’t sleep there, not well at least, probably won’t for a while. I was just so  _tired_. And I needed… somewhere safe.”

He must really be tired to be admitting this. 

Stiles is stunned. He saw the cleaning solution on his last visit to the Hale house, sitting half empty in the room where Peter Hale killed Kate Argent. But he knows now that some things linger. Things that ammonia and bleach can’t even cover up. Stiles doesn’t know how Derek did it before, living in a place of painful memories and ghosts, now a place where he’s been tortured.

Derek needed somewhere safe. And he came here. It could just be because it’s the Sheriff’s house, there’s nowhere better protected. But Stiles can’t help but feel that’s not it. Derek’s sleeping in his room, in his bed, under his sheets, wrapped tight in the covers that no doubt smell like him. He needed somewhere safe, and he came to Stiles. 

An already weird day is going to get weirder, because Stiles is sliding his fingers across the sheets and tangling them with Derek’s. He tenses himself, afraid he’s going to get shoved or thrown against something, but the werewolf is eerily still. And then he’s not sure which of them moves first, him towards Derek or Derek towards him, but they are meeting in the middle. Stiles’ nose pressed against Derek’s collarbone, Derek’s arms crushingly tight, legs sliding between each other, and Derek is breathing in deeply, one hand on the back of Stiles’ neck keeping him still. There is nuzzling. The embrace slowly loosens, the intensity still there, but quieter now. This is swiftly moving into cuddling territory.

Stiles brain can’t quite comprehend this situation, but it is also not fighting it, so he just gives in. 

Derek’s eyes are closed again, his breath steady, and Stiles too is on the verge of sleep. Just before he feels his eyelids fall, he whispers, “You’re always safe here,” and even though it’s muffled against Derek’s shirt he knows the werewolf can hear him. 


End file.
